The world did not break.
It did not fade.
It continued.
As if it had decided that what Cain needed to see was not destruction, not war, not death—
But something far quieter.
Something far more difficult to face.
Cain stood still, his gaze fixed forward, as the figures before him grew older, their small frames stretching into something closer to who they would become, their childish laughter slowly fading into something more restrained, more careful, more aware.
And among them—
Cornelia.
She stood there again.
No longer the little girl hiding her feelings behind small smiles and quiet gestures.
No longer the child who gave flowers and accepted being mistaken for someone else.
Now she looked like the Cornelia he remembered.
Tall.
Graceful.
Her long, curly hair falling over her shoulders, framing a face that carried both beauty and strength, the kind that came from years of training, from battles fought, from emotions buried deep where no one could reach them.
But—
